


ILU

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles wherein people randomly tell their dads (and uncles) they love them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ILU

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a collection of drabbles based on Nigahiga’s [The “I Love You Dad” Experiment](http://youtube.com/watch?v=XjtP0BYOA6s) video, wherein people randomly tell their dads they love them to varying degrees of awkward confusion. (Which, as someone who has one of those *awkward silence* dads, I could relate to. XD) (I’m throwing in Thorin just to extend the fic, and because I don’t know anything about Bombur’s kids.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

* * *

**Glóin.**

* * *

Uncle Óin always hugs Gimli when he leaves after visits, wrapping strong arms around Gimli’s shoudlers and having to bend over less and less with the years, though Gimli still hasn’t reached his parent’s full height. To his shame, he’s nowhere near their girth, either. But his beard’s coming along, and his dad still teaches him to fight as though he’s fully grown, so he isn’t too poor off. When Óin pulls back, he claps Gimli’s on the shoulders and grins fondly through his white beard, spouting the familiar, “I love you.”

And Gimli says, “I love you back,” even as Óin turns away, not seeing his lips move and therefore probably not hearing. Óin doesn’t have to; he knows it. Gimli has several friends who never say those three words, but Gimli says it to his mom and his uncle all the time. 

But it occurs to him, as Óin disappears through their doorway, that he never says it to his dad. In fact, Gimli can’t think of a single time they _ever_ said it, although surely it must’ve happened _sometime_. Sometimes he calls it after his mom before they part ways for the night, their bedrooms being next to one another, but he’s never once said more than an abbreviated “’night” to bid his dad to sleep. 

So with Uncle Óin gone and his mother back in her study, Gimli wanders down to his dad’s workshop, where he finds his father’s big bushy red head bent over with his favourite axe on his kneed and a polishing rag clasped around the handle. 

Gimli’s sure his dad does love him. But more than anything, he’s just _curious_ why they can’t say it. Mom says it, Óin says it, Gimli says it. And it doesn’t seem fair for his dad to be the only member of the family that never gets to hear how much they value him. So Gimli, feet still on the last step, calls across the stuffy study, “Dad!”

His dad looks sharply up, his usual look bordering on a scowl to anyone that doesn’t know that that’s just the way his face is carved. Gimli has a moment of hesitation, but his courage wins out, and he grunts, “I love you.”

He doesn’t know what he expected. Probably not his dad squinting. A moment of awkward silence settles over them, and then his dad abruptly asks, “What did you do?”

“What?”

“Did you break that new sword I got you?”

“No,” Gimli splutters, while his dad continues squinting suspiciously at him. It leaves Gimli wrinkling his nose. Now he has his answer why he never says it. Maybe that’s why Óin says it every time—to make up for his brother’s lack. 

Or maybe Dwarven warriors aren’t _supposed_ to divulge their feelings. Gimli’s mother and Óin aren’t quite the fierce fighters that his dad is. Maybe that’s why. Too soft. 

...Except that Gimli sort of prefers the soft way, so he wanders back upstairs, confusedly searching for his mother to rat to.

* * *

**Thorin.**

* * *

They’re in the middle of the woods when it happens. Thorin’s sitting on a log, tending to the fire, while Bofur and Nori get dinner started. Most of the company is caught up in idle chatter, except their burglar, who’s sitting sullenly alone after the debacle earlier with Dwalin accidentally tearing his last handkerchief. Why he needs such things on a quest with gems at the end, Thorin has no idea. The wizard’s wandered off, as he so often does, and Fíli and Kíli are sitting on either side of him, suspiciously quiet until Fíli says, “I love you, Uncle.”

Thorin glances sideways, blinking. Before he can respond, Kíli adds, “I love you, too.” Not even a ‘me too.’ The full thing. And it makes it sound so easy, like he should spout it right back, but for some reason, his tongue gets thick in his throat, and he looks about the fire to see if anyone else has heard. 

No one else has. Fíli and Kíli don’t have those dead-serious looks they don when all the fun is over, but they don’t look like their teasing, either. Thorin’s cheeks feel unduly hot. He’s never been one to randomly spout his feelings, and Dís isn’t, either, so it’s strange that her sons would do so. 

He opens his mouth, but then Bofur pops up to hand him a bowl of ugly soup, and he shifts uncomfortably to take it. He ends up coughing, just to clear his throat. 

And then the moment’s gone, and he’s painfully aware that it’s been too long. He thinks he should answer anyway. But it’s like a lack of practice has rendered his tongue unable to form too-heartfelt words, and he just feels wholly awkward. 

Fíli snorts, and Kíli tries to stifle a quick chuckle. Maybe they knew it’d make him tongue tied, and that was their foolish idea of a joke, or they’re punishing him for giving them the smallest ponies. Even though it did make him feel _good_. Fíli and Kíli have meant a great deal to him since they were first born, and he held their tiny forms in his arms and looked into their wide eyes. Then Ori elbows Fíli in the side, and suddenly they’re talking, and Thorin’s missed his window of opportunity and he’s messed everything up. 

He buries himself in his soup and tries to ignore the swelling of his heart.

* * *

**Bard.**

* * *

“I hate you,” Alfrid mutters under his breath, like he’s too afraid to say it to her father’s face. Tilda sticks her tongue out at him from behind her dad’s legs, while Sigrid and Bain are off shopping inside. Her dad ignores Alfrid completely, and finally, the greasy jerk storms off, wafting sheer bitterness around him. 

Her dad lets out a sigh, probably of relief, which Tilda completely understands. She still doesn’t understand how he could have enemies, so good as he is. He’s kind and brave and always helping out the town in whatever way he can, yet still the Master and Alfrid hassle him whenever they get a chance. Even when he’s doing nothing more than shopping. Someday, Tilda’s resolved to push Alfrid right into the water, but she’s waiting for the perfect opportunity, where there are no witnesses around to blame it on her dad. 

He picks at a hanging carpet—they need one to cover the hole in the living room floor—and Tilda tugs at his coat to get his attention. Just to counteract Alfrid’s mean words, Tilda says, “I love you, Da’,” bright and sincere. 

He smiles wide, and even though she’s biased, she’s sure he’s objectively handsome, especially so when he smiles—it takes some of the weariness out of his eyes. Sometimes she doesn’t understand why they don’t have a new mom yet. Not that they _need_ one. He’s enough, and they’re a good family. They all love each other. She wants him to know it.

He says back just as easily, “I love you, too, Tilda,” and he drops a hand to ruffle her hair, even though it’s pulled back into a ponytail and doesn’t do much. It’s the gesture of it she likes. He’s still playful, still happy. Alfrid or the Master or anyone else can’t take that away from him. 

She hugs him around the waist while he flips over the carpet to check the price tag, only for Bain and Sigrid to come out with a bigger, deep purple one.

* * *

**Elrond.**

* * *

All of his children are beautiful. He’s proud of them all for different reasons, and he treasures them all the same. There’s still a small part of him that wants to frown every time Elladan and Elrohir leave the safety of Imladris, but he’s a good enough father to allow them their freedom, and he tries not to show his sadness on his face. He welcomes them back calmly each time. He takes joy in Arwen remaining, still treasuring all the stories and flowers that their home has to offer.

He has wine brought out for the special occasion of her brothers’ return, though when Lindir leans over his shoulder to pour it, Elrond lifts a hand, taking only half. His boys give themselves more, and across the round table, they begun to tell him of their travels. He listens intently to each detail, and Arwen occasionally interrupts with questions, in between poking the salad around her plate. When Elladan vividly describes vanquishing a troll, Lindir lets out a soft gasp behind Elrond, who hides his thin smile in his glass. 

They cannot, however, seem to agree on _how_ the third troll was slain. Elrohir claims it was his blade, Elladan his arrow. Never choosing sides, Elrond remains quiet, and Arwen follows suit, allowing them to battle it out amongst one another. 

Elrond finish the last bite of his slice of lemon cake, and then, simply because it’s a special occasion, he allows himself to indulge in a second.

While he scoops another slice from the tray on the center and takes it to his plate, Arwen places a delicate hand over his wrist. At first, he thinks she’s protesting his second helping of dessert, but she lets him finish plating his food. When his lemon cake is safely home, he looks sideways at her. The fading evening light washes elegantly atop her dark hair, and her gentle features bear a smile. She tells him, “I love you, Ada,” completely out of the great blue sky.

He’s surprised, at first, because it’s such a very straightforward thing, and he’s done nothing to prompt such glowing words. But that doesn’t diminish their meaning. He can only hope it isn’t a prelude to something worse—she’s sugarcoated her speech to him in the past. But she can also be pleasantly unpredictable, so he chooses to take the words at face value. He places his other hand over hers and squeezes it lightly, smiling back with all his love. She says nothing else, and when he removes hand, she releases his wrist, and he’s free to enjoy his second lemon cake.

* * *

**Thranduil.**

* * *

Legolas has thought of it for many nights, and this will be the one. He’s no more certain now of how events will unfold than he was when he first conjured the idea, but the concept is tormenting him, and the longer he holds it in, the more distressing that uncertainty becomes. He is sure, on some level, that his father loves him, even if it’s only in some small, twisted way. But it’s never truly been _expressed_ to him, and now Legolas has grown to the point where he doesn’t remember when he last tried. 

It wasn’t always like this, he’s sure. He has vague, withered memories of running to his father, being lifted into the air, and Thranduil, in all his beautiful glory with his regal crown, calling Legolas _my little leaf_ and holding him like he was so, so special.

He no longer remembers what his father’s embrace feels like. He knows that in many ways, it’s made him cold in return. He’s bitterer than he used to be. Even with Tauriel, who he so respects and admires, he can’t say what he means. That stems from Thranduil, like all things in their kingdom. 

Even so, his love for Tauriel pales in comparison to his love for his father, and it’s that strained bond that pulls him along the steps. He walks through the towering halls of the throne room, passing guards without a word and watching the light above twist steadily from yellow to blue: the light of the stars. He spent the day hunting, thinking it would bolster his courage, but emotional strength is not such an easy thing to flame. 

By the time he reaches the raised circular platform just below his father’s throne, he’s passed all the sentinels. They’re alone, and though he’s kept his eyes down, he can feel Thranduil’s on his body. He wills himself to look up, and sure enough, he captures Thranduil’s gaze. He stands in his silver-green armour, feeling like a small child again that could topple over with the wind.

Before he can speak, Thranduil asks, “What is it?” in that deep, drawling voice of his, as though nothing in the world could merit any more interest. He’s already lounging in his throne, looking so very much like he _belongs_ there, like he sprouted from the earth with the branches that made it. His crystal eyes seem to hold Legolas captive.

It’s his _father_ , he tells himself, and he shouldn’t be ashamed to say what he feels. He shouldn’t fear the response. He parts his lips, but the words won’t come out; his face feels hot. He’s waited too long.

A flicker of annoyance crosses Thranduil’s languid features. He claims to be a patient man, but his temper can be as cold as it is even. Legolas drops his chin, the power leaving him.

He takes a deep breath, and he wills himself fiercer. If he fails tonight, he’ll never say it. And if nothing else, he wants Thranduil to _know_ that whatever happens, however far apart they grow, Legolas will _always_ love him.

Legolas turns for the twisted steps that reach up to Thranduil’s throne, and he ascends them one by one, feeling Thranduil watching him the entire way. When he’s on the final step, he looks down at his father, so grand and handsome: a true _king_. But still Legolas’ father. Legolas leans over the throne, one hand falling to the wooden armrest, so he can whisper and not fear that it’ll carry, “ _I love you, Ada._ ” His breath holds, chest tight.

Thranduil looks up at Legolas with complete incomprehension, and then, for one disturbing moment, _panic_ seems to dance across his eyes. In that single second of hesitation, Legolas knows that he won’t hear it back. His father’s too _afraid_ ; he can see now that it’s all fear. 

But Thranduil is a proud man, and he recollects himself a second later, once again carved out of stone. He looks deliberately away and breathes a serene, rich, “Good.”

Legolas releases his breath. He didn’t truly expect better. Yet it still _bothers_ him, because he _wants_ to hear it back, and for whatever reason, he blurts again, “I love you.”

Thranduil hisses, “I know that.” And then he opens his mouth, as thought to say more, likely something inane like, ‘most do,’ or, ‘your mother loved you dearly.’ He acts as though the entire exchange _pains_ him. Only his own trembling holds Legolas back from departure, and when he waits long enough, Thranduil settles into place again as though nothing at all has happened. He looks at Legolas with cryptic, poorly hidden emotion, and Legolas feels an irksome spark of _pity_. He never wants to be so closed. He’s at least glad that he’s said it, so that Thranduil can know, even within all those walls, that he isn’t so isolated as he seems.

But Legolas knows when he’s lost. He straightens out and bows his head respectfully, then turns down the stairs to leave. He’s at the edge of the dais when he hears, murmured feather-light on the air, “Good night, my leaf.”

And it’s enough to make Legolas _okay._

* * *

**Bilbo.**

* * *

They’re walking home with the sun beating down and their packs lighter than when they set out, all the picnic food now heavy in their stomachs. They talk most of the way, except when they pause for Bilbo to sing, and afterwards, Frodo asks him, “Which of the dwarves taught you that one?”

“I made it up myself,” Bilbo harrumphs, to which Frodo smiles sly, as though he knows more than he could. In truth, Bofur inspired it, but Bilbo’s changed so many of the words and mangled the tune enough that it’s basically his own. He’ll present it as such when he next visits Rivendell, and the elves will likely welcome it as warmly as little Sam. Frodo teases, but he enjoyed it. Bilbo can see that on his face. 

Frodo enjoys a great many things that most hobbits don’t, and for that, Bilbo’s never once regretted adopting him. It’s good to have someone to tell all his stories, and to share some tea with, and to laugh over escaping Lobelia’s fussy bothering. Frodo’s trousers are stained from rolling down the grass today, but cleaning them up will be a fair price for his company. 

Bilbo asks, “Have I told you the one about the enchanted stream?” And he expects Frodo to laugh and say that Bilbo’s told him all of them.

Instead, Frodo says suddenly, “I love you, Bilbo,” and his grin catches the light, like the sort of picturesque moments that Bilbo couldn’t write any better if he tried. It makes his heart glad to hear it, and he finds himself chuckling happily, reaching sideways.

He says, “Thank you, my boy,” and envelops Frodo in a tight hug that halts their steps for only a moment. It’s only one handed, because Bilbo has a walking stick clutched in the other, and Frodo’s still carrying flowers he wants to ask his Sam about. They’re an odd pair, the two of them, but Bilbo wouldn’t have it any other way.

As they set back up the hill, Frodo says, “Tell me about the enchanted stream,” and Bilbo starts on about poor Bombur falling in.


End file.
